


Up In Smoke

by eris_of_imladris



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 12:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13481187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eris_of_imladris/pseuds/eris_of_imladris
Summary: Fëanor is the architect of his doom by making the Silmarils for all the wrong reasons.





	Up In Smoke

Fëanor was awakened from his slumber by the cry of a child. In his own  
childhood, this would have been an excuse to burrow under the covers,  
grumbling about half-siblings who were so immature that they had no  
better way to express themselves, but now that it was his own son, he  
was quick to get out of bed, approaching the room where his two  
youngest sons were supposed to be sleeping.

He took the time to throw a dressing robe on top of his sleeping  
trousers, and as he made his way towards the twins’ room, he looked  
into the other open doors, observing his sons at work and play. Nelyo,  
his beautiful Nelyo, was reading aloud from a book with two of his  
brothers by his side. Kano’s eyes were glassy already, no doubt  
thinking of some new composition, and Curvo was settled in Nelyo’s lap  
instead of at his father’s feet. Turco was off hunting, most likely,  
and perhaps had even taken Moryo with him, after what felt like an  
eternity of asking permission.

It was an unusual scene – yes, the brothers were close, but the older  
boys, especially Nelyo, had responsibilities. They could not simply  
ignore everything and do whatever they wished at this prime hour of  
the day. There would be dinner later, and the evening, for recreation,  
and the only reason things were this way now was because Nelyo had an  
appointment to spend the evening with his grandfather, looking over  
some official papers in the inevitable preparation for kingship. Even  
though Nelyo was third in line, as his name described, there was still  
good reason for him to learn these skills, even if it was just to help  
him serve as a barrier between his half-brother and his father.

Fëanor paused outside the room where his two youngest sons slept and  
played and learned all about their world. Twins were an unheard-of  
blessing, which only made the little redheads more special to his  
people, and more endearing to him. He looked inside, and could  
instantly tell that it was little Pityo who was crying, and he had  
only just scooped the young boy in his arms only for him to exclaim,  
“Telvo was playing with my toy!”

Looking for the source of the conflict, it didn’t take Fëanor long to  
see the toy hammer sitting on the ground. It had been a present for  
Curvo, who looked so much like him that he had been determined to give  
the boy everything he lacked when he was a child. The child had taken  
to the toy hammer immediately, and it had not been long before he had  
been wielding a real, albeit small, hammer in his father’s forge,  
banging on scrap metal, and the toy had been relegated to the next  
members of the family.

“You need to learn to share with your brother,” Fëanor lightly  
scolded, tempted to offer to create a second hammer to eliminate the  
situation before he heard a giggle coming from behind him.

“That’s funny for you to say,” Nerdanel said from the doorway,  
entering the room with her arms folded. Amusement danced in her eyes.

“The situation is entirely different,” Fëanor said, bending down once  
again as Telvo reached out for his father. With both twins in arms, he  
looked at his wife once more. “These two will never have to fight for  
my love.”

“Neither do you,” Nerdanel replied, raising a single eyebrow before  
she quickly changed her tone. “There was a messenger at the gate  
looking for Nelyo, and I was just showing him to Nelyo’s room, but he  
was not there.”

“He is with Curvo and Kano in the study,” Fëanor said. “What did the  
messenger have to say?”

Nerdanel shook her head. “He did not come here for me, or for you.”

“Where did he come from?” Fëanor asked.

“From your father,” Nerdanel replied, and Fëanor left the room  
quickly, still carrying one child in each arm, berating himself for  
being barely dressed when there was a messenger from his father there,  
and the last thing he needed was to look like a childish fool in front  
of someone who reported back to the king.

He quickly made his way back through the house, ignoring the empty  
rooms until he saw the ellon in the king’s livery standing in front of  
Nelyo.

His son had placed the book down, and Kano was holding it, now paying  
rapt attention to the messenger, who seemed to be making pleasantries  
to his children. Tempted to enter, Fëanor contented himself with  
watching from outside, listening as Kano softly shushed Curvo from  
asking another question. Fëanor beamed with pride; his son’s curiosity  
was insatiable, just like his own.

“Thus, I regret to inform you that King Finwë is unable to meet with  
you this evening,” the messenger said. “He sends his regrets, and his  
love, and hopes you will come visit soon.”

Nelyo nodded, his face expressionless. “I hope I will see him soon,”  
he said, and with that, the messenger left, only to bump into Fëanor  
standing in the doorway.

Fëanor waved his bow aside and asked, “Why is my father not meeting  
with his grandson? They were supposed to discuss important matters  
today.”

“I do not know,” the messenger replied.

“I know you do,” Fëanor said, looking at the ellon’s eyes, the way  
they couldn’t quite meet his. “Now, let me try again: why is my father  
not meeting with my son?”

“He was approached by another who wished to meet with him, someone who  
has been away for some time.”

“And this person is more important than my son?”

The messenger looked uncomfortable, perhaps about to speak again, but  
before he could, Nelyo raised his voice. “I am fine,” he said.  
“Grandfather should spend time with all of his grandchildren. I will  
see him soon, and learn of Fingon’s adventure.”

In the time it took for Fëanor to truly understand what his son, his  
own firstborn, had said, the messenger was out of the room.

“Nelyo?” Fëanor asked, his voice laced with pain.

“Atar, it is no problem,” he said. “I can wait.”

“But you did not go to your own tutor today in order to have the time  
to see your grandfather,” Fëanor said.

“And I can miss one more day,” Nelyo replied.

Fëanor shook his head. “This is sending the wrong message… I cannot  
even believe this. I will have to do something…”

“Fingon is his grandson too,” Nelyo said.

The fact was true, simple, and all too painful to acknowledge. Even  
though Fëanor had his own family now, there was still something inside  
him that needed to come first in his father’s eyes, that made even  
this small change of plans seem like a catastrophic confirmation of  
everything he had dreaded since Indis first stole his father away.

“You need to stop taking this so seriously,” Nerdanel butted in, her  
hand on his shoulder. “It is not always about you.”

What had happened to the days when Nerdanel had always believed him?  
With a grunt, he slipped out of the house and made his way towards the  
forge, the one place where he continued to find respite. There was  
always something to work on, something to think about, that could take  
his mind off of other things, and there was no harm in getting work  
done while he formulated his perfect response.

Frustrated by the fact that there was nothing he could do – Fingon had  
stolen this time and would not give it back, just like his  
commandeering father – he scarcely noticed the shuffling sound as  
someone else entered the forge. He turned around only to see dark  
hair, dark eyes, and an all-too-familiar grin.

“Why are you here? Who let you in?” he asked furiously, brandishing a  
hammer at the intruder leaning against the anvil.

“No one had to let me in. I heard what your father did and I came to  
offer my support,” the voice said, friendly in a way Fëanor had come  
to not associate with any of the Valar.

One part of him screamed that this was Melkor, of all the Valar, the  
one who he should trust the least – but another part of him was that  
small boy trailing a few steps behind his father as he hoisted  
Fingolfin in the air, and the sheer fact that someone had believed him  
made him stay.

“You do not think I am crazy?” he asked, wishing he could take back  
his words, realizing how stupid he must have sounded, but the sheer  
relief of speaking made him determined to hear a response.

Melkor did not hesitate. “Crazy? Of course not. You are merely seeing  
the truth that no one else wants you to see.”

“And what say do you have in this matter?”

“I swore to my brother Manwë that I returned to do good,” Melkor said  
with a smile, “and I intend to make good on that promise, starting  
with you.”

“Why me?”

“Because I like action, and you have the tools at your disposal, right  
now, to catapult yourself ahead of your half-brother and establish  
yourself as your father’s favorite, permanently.”

“How?” Fëanor asked, his voice all too small.

“You are gifted, Fëanor, but up until now, you have relied on your  
status as the firstborn to gain your father’s love. Clearly, it is not  
working, if he favors Fingon over your own sons, the ones who Nerdanel  
risked her very life to give you to aid in this conflict.”

It made all too much sense. “What must I do?”

“Use your talents. Make something so wondrous that your father will be  
forced to see you as the other Noldor do – a High Prince, worthy of  
all respect, not just a boy seeking attention.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It is no secret that you are jealous of Fingolfin, but jealousy is  
little more than fear. You must ignore it and find another way to  
conquer him, a way to shine so brightly that anyone, even your  
father’s little darling, would look dull by comparison.”

It was these words that he heard long after Melkor left, long after he  
was determined to spend endless days and nights working on a new,  
secret project. These words had inspired him to use a new, rather  
obscure material he found to craft a gem that could outshine anything.

He could finally prove, he thought as he attuned his skills to the new  
project, that he was the superior child. Yes, there were merits to  
wisdom that even he had to admit, but skill could exceed it all, and  
in terms of skill there was none like him. He simply had to set the  
playing field to suit his strengths, and turn his forge work from  
something he knew his half-brother looked down on to something that  
would catapult him above all others.

And yet, when he held failure after failure in his hands, he began to  
fear. Time was going by, and even in an immortal world, he felt the  
pressure to finish quickly, or else Fingolfin would have his chance to  
come in and finish the job of stealing his father once and for all.  
That was only a quick jump away from the inevitable loss of his  
position, and without the title that he clung to, he would be nothing  
at all, and neither would his sons.

And suddenly, for the briefest moment, all seven of his sons meant  
nothing in the face of this revelation. If he was going to be skipped  
over in the line of succession, then surely his sons would suffer the  
same fate?

He swore he would not follow his fear. This new project was for him,  
he told his family, even if he was met with skeptical looks. There was  
nothing behind it.

He didn’t have to do this, Nerdanel told him nearly constantly when he  
returned home tired, if at all. He was overtaxing himself, Nelyo said  
with a concerned face. But it was for Nelyo and his beloved brothers  
that he did it, even if he had to miss Pityo and Telvo learning to  
read, Kano’s newest masterpiece, Curvo’s familiar presence by his side  
because he could not trust a child to keep his secrets from  
Fingolfin’s cunning disguised as wisdom.

At last, when he had followed his passion to the brink, he held three  
Silmarils in his hands and realized he had not spoken to his father in  
what felt like forever. He did not know if Nelyo had met with the king  
and spoken about something that he had forgotten about long ago. For  
several moments too long, when Pityo and Telvo came to hug his legs,  
he forgot which twin had the dimple in his left cheek.

He would make it right, even if Nerdanel was more distant than ever,  
even if he had no idea what had transpired between Fingolfin and his  
father in the meantime. He would make things right with the gems in a  
way he had never been able to before. And he would dress as a prince,  
wearing a robe his own mother had made for him, and cement his  
birthright at last.

But as he strode into the hall with the Silmarils on his brow, it was  
Melkor who smiled the widest, for a reason entirely his own.


End file.
